


Solace

by chelseagirl



Series: Ella [14]
Category: Alias Smith and Jones
Genre: Adult Content, F/M, Post-Amnesty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 23:45:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14681997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chelseagirl/pseuds/chelseagirl
Summary: On a visit to New Orleans, Kid Curry is ready to start letting go of an old hurt.  But it's not as easy as it might seem.  Adult story which takes place concurrently with "Interlude in New Orleans."





	Solace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gemhenry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemhenry/gifts).



> This takes place during chapter 4 of "Interlude in New Orleans" and deals with both Kid Curry's struggle with his feelings about Sandy and Michelle, and what he does to try to resolve them . . . . 
> 
> ,

Kid Curry sighed. “Heyes, go back to the hotel. I just want to be on my own.”

Heyes looked at his partner, his dark eyes sad. “I’m sorry, Kid. Sorry that Michelle didn’t turn out to be what you were looking for. Sorry you’re still feeling so haunted by . . .” he broke off, not wanting to say the name. “I don’t like leaving you alone. Let’s get another bottle and . . . “

“No, Heyes. When I say I want to be on my own, I don’t mean . . . I don’t mean on my own. I mean . . . You’re just a little bit in the way, to be honest.”

No more needed to be said. Curry had stopped availing himself of the company of saloon girls even a bit before he’d started actively courting Sandy – shortly after their arrival in San Francisco, and just when he could have had anyone he wanted. Actually, Heyes reflected, the Kid could always pretty much have any lady he wanted, and that had always been the case. But in San Francisco, the partners had been running the Western Star Casino. The glamour of the two former outlaws was very much on public display, and it was felt by customers and staff alike. Heyes had already gone and gotten himself married, and, to the disappointment of more than a few women who’d tried, just wasn’t interested. So Kid Curry was not only a very attractive option, but the only one of the pair who was available. Apparently. But after a few tumbles with very willing ladies, he’d had to admit to himself that it just didn’t feel right. That he’d wait for the one he really wanted.

Throughout their courtship, Curry had been certain that he’d found the woman he wanted to share his life with. But Sandy was gone now, up near the Canadian border with her father’s Blackfoot tribe, withdrawn from the larger world in the wake of her kidnapping and rape, and it was anyone’s guess whether she was ever coming back. There had been no word from her or from her father, and it had been close to a year, now.

And running into Michelle Monet here in New Orleans had stirred up a whole new bunch of feelings. Could this woman, whom he’d sent away once before to protect her, could she be the answer? Could he love her now?

The answer, apparently, was no. And the problem was, bluntly, that in the midst of all the hope and then heartbreak, Jed Curry hadn’t gotten laid in quite some time. And that was something which needed to be remedied, and soon, if only to break the spell he felt he was under.

Heyes couldn’t remember, anymore, when he’d stopped taking saloon girls upstairs, himself. He and Ella had become lovers shortly after meeting. In the beginning, after each encounter, it was never certain when or even whether they would see each other again. He’d thought that his lack of interest in a quick and easy exchange of pleasure with the young ladies whose business it was, came down to the fact that money was short, he was on the move constantly, and the poker table was a more profitable way to spend his time. He’d thought maybe he was just getting older. But then came the memorably awkward occasion in Colorado Springs, where he’d had a girl on his arm, the first one in some time. He’d been drunk and in need of some fresh air, and they’d stepped out of the saloon for a moment and run straight into Ella, who was inexplicably there, two territories away from home. Maybe that was the point when he’d started to admit to himself that the reason he’d lost interest in other women was because he kept comparing them to Ella. That it turned out that lovemaking was better when the “love” part was involved, even if he was still having trouble admitting to himself exactly what he was feeling towards her. And then there was amnesty, and eventually the two of them had stumbled past their own fears and defenses sufficiently that on the second occasion when he'd asked her to marry him, she'd said yes.

The Kid, who’d been allowing Sandy to set the pace of things between them, after her abusive marriage, had been a great deal more restrained in his behavior towards his beloved. Since the day he’d watched her father drive off with her, with a promise to try to heal her, bring her back from the place inside herself she’d gone to hide from her assailants, he’d been waiting with diminishing hope for her return. Or at least for some word from her. Autumn had passed, and winter, and spring, and still nothing. What if she never got better? What if she found that life among the Blackfoot people brought her happiness, and that Jed Curry had no place in her life anymore?

Michelle had been the last straw. Back in San Juan and on their subsequent trip north, he’d thought he might have had feelings for her. But meeting her again several years later, after Sandy’s warmth and genuineness, her courage and adventurous spirit and even her fragility, he could see how shallow Michelle really was. He kept comparing the two women, and the comparison was never in Michelle’s favor. She was, in fact, mildly annoying, with her persistent chirping away in the French accent he’d once found so charming.

He wasn’t entirely ready to give up hoping for Sandy, but he had less and less faith that she’d ever return. He needed to set his feelings to one side, and to begin to move on with his life. And the one, the sole positive reaction he’d had to Michelle was realizing that he was starting to feel desire again.

Of course, he’d owed her more than to take advantage of the situation, once he realized how little real interest she held for him. And New Orleans was famous for its brothels, wasn’t it? So he shoo’ed Heyes off, back to their hotel and his wife and young daughter, and he stepped out onto the Rue Royale to get a breath of air.

He’d heard whispers about Antoinette’s, from the first time he stepped into a New Orleans dive to have a drink on the night they’d arrived. How the girls were the most beautiful, the most inventive, the most compliant. How the experience was a delight to the senses and a balm to the soul. Just what he needed.

He made his way through the streets, from the old Quartier towards Canal Street, and into the red-light district. Antoinette’s was located in a mansion dating back to an earlier time, a discreet brass nameplate at the door. He entered, and was looked up and down by an older lady, dressed properly in black silk up to her earlobes.

“You’ll do,” she said, and stepped aside, as did the two large men who flanked her. “But we’ll hold on to that – no weapons.”

He unbuckled his gunbelt and handed it to her. Maybe he was foolish to agree so easily, he mused, but it didn’t seem right, in a place dedicated to the arts of love. Or as Heyes might say, if he’d been dipping into Ella’s books again, it was a house for Venus, not Mars. (He had been reading ancient Greek and Roman mythology lately, and sharing the good bits with his partner. That Zeus got around . . .)

The inside was a gorgeous fantasia of sights and sounds, antique furniture, rich woven carpets, and paintings on the walls that looked both old and valuable. Musicians played in the main parlor, a soft, sensuous music that he’d never heard before.

Women glided past him, wearing pale satin gowns that softly draped their frames, and nothing underneath. Everything was covered but their braceleted arms, yet everything was revealed. They ranged from palest blondes, even one breathtaking albino with silver-grey eyes, to darkest ebony beauties. There were young men, as well, bare chested and wanton. He wasn’t sure what he wanted – someone who would remind him of Sandy or someone as different as could be imagined. When he saw her, he’d know.

The one he chose, in the end, was one of the older women on the floor – probably his own age, just the far side of 30. She was striking, with auburn hair, clear green eyes, and alabaster skin. Her curves were luscious, and her waist tiny, although it was clear under the revealing satin that she was uncorseted.

Their eyes met and his glance held an invitation – the same look that had entranced many a young woman who wasn’t for rent, and had drawn the professionals towards him like flies towards honey. She nodded, and he moved towards her.

“Hello, handsome,” she said. “Looks like tonight might be my lucky night. _If_ you can afford me, of course.”

“Been pretty lucky at cards, lately,” he said, and she smiled, looking him up and down.

“I’m glad to hear it, ‘cause I think I’d like spending some time with you.”

“That’s the general idea,” he said, quietly, taking another step towards her. “But I appreciate bein’ appreciated.”

“Well,” she said, “I might not be the youngest, or the prettiest.” She was stunningly beautiful, but in this room, that made her only average. “But I’m especially,” she paused, winked, “talented.” She left it uncertain as to what exactly her special talents were. Around her wrist, she wore a studded bracelet, which added a harsh touch to her otherwise ethereal outfit, but suggested what they might be.

Not his usual inclination, but just what he was looking for tonight.

He nodded in response, and she took his hand. She led him up a grand staircase, to her room.

It was larger than any whorehouse room he’d ever seen before, and lavish in its appointments. There was even a marble fireplace, though the New Orleans weather guaranteed that it must have been used only rarely.

“Is there anything special you’re looking for, handsome? Usually a man as good-looking as you is here for one of three reasons: he wants to keep his life uncomplicated, there’s things his wife won’t let him do with her, or he’s nursing a broken heart.” She looked him over, while he slipped off his jacket. “I’m thinking that any woman lucky enough to land you, she’s gonna know that. She’s not gonna say no to much. So it’s one, or it’s three.”

“Kinda both,” he said. “Don’t feel like talkin’. Just doin’.” He pulled her towards him, and kissed her hard, on the lips.

“That’s not usually on the menu,” she said. “But I think I’ll make an exception.” Many whores didn’t allow kissing – it was the one thing they could keep for their private lives, and most of them did. But she began kissing back, slowly, sensuously, gradually coaxing his tongue with hers.

The kisses grew deeper, and he began to caress her body through the silk satin gown. Her breasts were beautifully shaped, neither very large nor very small, and he played with her nipples, the texture of the fabric adding to the sensation. She made small appreciative noises, and he somehow knew that she wasn’t feigning.

Then he lowered his hand, stroking downwards towards her belly, and around so that he was soon cupping her buttocks in his hand. She was utterly delicious. But something felt . . . something wasn’t quite right.

She seemed to relax into his touch, and to be enjoying the sensation, when suddenly, abruptly, she pushed him away. “Let me take charge,” she said.

That was what he’d been hoping for.

“Off with your clothes,” she said abruptly. “Now!”

Nothing slow or sensual about the way he slipped off his vest, unbuttoned his shirt. Instead, he felt surprisingly eager, and surprisingly awkward. He was used to being in command of the situation – always, but especially in romantic encounters. But he wanted to be out of control – the way he was caressing her had been too much like what he’d imagined it would be with -- he cut himself off abruptly.

The New Orleans heat meant he wasn’t wearing anything under his shirt. She gave an appreciative glance at his bare chest. “Stand still,” she said. She drew one of her long fingernails down his torso, scratching him lightly and leaving a long red mark. She followed with her tongue, licking all sorts of places on her way down. When she reached his waist, instead of going farther, as he’d expected, she gave him a little shove. “Your boots are still on,” she said, as she pushed him down onto the edge of the bed.

He busied himself with removing them, and looked at her, uncertainly, his blond curls falling forward and his brilliant blue eyes unusually subdued.

She not-so-gently pushed him backwards onto the bed, as he began to unfasten his trousers. He slid them downward, revealing his red longjohn bottoms underneath. “You’ve got to be awfully warm in those,” she said. “Take ‘em off.”

Obediently, he slid trousers and undergarments down, over his hips and his knees. He went to reach down to slip out of them, but she stopped him.

“I think I like it when you can’t get away so easily.”

“Why ever would I want to do that?” he asked, a smile curving his lips.

“Why ever, indeed?” she asked, and kissed him, hard. His natural instinct to fold her in his arms was countered by her gentle but firm restraining touch. “Learn to let go,” she whispered. Finally, she slid off the satin gown, and was more beautiful even than he’d imagined. “Now there’s different ways we can do this, hard or gentle. You want to give up control, and you’re not used to that. Perhaps the full on Sacher-Masoch experience.”

“The who?”

“There’s a book called _Venus in Furs_ . . . “ she trailed off.

 _Why does everyone I know have to read up about everything they do? Why can’t they just do it?_ Jed wondered. Heyes was bad enough, now that he had Ella’s extensive library at his disposal. _And now I’ve chosen a whore for the first time in a couple of years and she’s got a reading list?_ Well, Antoinette’s wasn’t just any whorehouse, so why should he be surprised that the ladies there would study their specialties?

The woman stepped away for a moment, and when she returned, she was carrying a whip. With the gown gone, Jed realized she was wearing cruel-looking boots, herself, shiny black patent leather, with high narrow heels. She cracked the whip once, in the air, to get his attention.

“Turn over!” she barked, and he complied, almost without thinking. The whip cracked against his buttocks, once, twice, three times.

At the third stroke he turned, his blue eyes glinting dangerously. “Enough!” he said.

“So that’s not what you want?” She looked at him, puzzled.

For a moment it seemed he might grab the whip and return the favor. But then his eyes softened, and he smiled ruefully. “I want you to make me – I want . . . “ he shook his head.

She studied him intently for a moment, then another, and another. “Did she marry someone else?”

He looked at her blankly, then shook his head again. “No.”

“But something’s keeping you apart, and you want, but you don’t feel like you should.”

No answer, but something in the blue eyes told her she was on the right track.

“So you need me to make you. You’re not really interested in my specialties, but you need me to compel you. Because then it’s not you.” And now she stepped forward, the whip falling to the ground, and she reached forward to stroke the blond curls. “You need to move past it, but it can’t be you, not the first time after . . . “

She sat down on the edge of the bed, unbuckling the wicked-looking boots. “I wondered. Your every movement tells me you’re used to being in control of the situation. They come to me for that – for the release of not being that person for a moment. For you, though, it’s simpler.”

As she swung her legs up on the bed, he saw how the boots had cut into her flesh in places, and without thinking, he slid around so that he could massage them.

She chuckled softly, enjoying the relief. “Not what I was expecting. And . . . thank you. Now, I want you to do exactly as I say.” She guided him through the process – every time he went to touch her, she held him back, gently but firmly. Instead, she took his hand in hers, guiding him as he stroked her breasts, her belly, her buttocks, and then to her special place. She directed him as he touched her womanhood, her wetness increasing, until he found the core of it, and she drew him onward as he sent her to ecstasy.

After she came, she said softly, “No reason a working girl shouldn’t enjoy her work. And now it’s time for you.” She guided him on top of her, and then inside, with a gentle touch controlling his rhythm. When he tried to speed up, she slowed him down. “You’re not paying by the minute. Enjoy this for as long as you can.” He thrust again and again, but slowly, gently, feeling every nerve ending tingle. It had been far too long, and he was going to come too soon.

She stopped him, then let him start again. Strangely, she suddenly started chatting about the New Orleans weather, drawing his attention away – until he realized what she was doing. _Think about other things, distract yourself, see how long you can ride this._

Finally, when she’d drawn things out, pleasurably, for longer than he’d imagined after all this time, she thrust forward herself, guiding him to speed up. In the end, when he came, it was better than he’d expected. It was sheer, simple, uncomplicated bliss.

Afterwards, having washed himself with a basin of lukewarm water, which she indicated behind a screen, and dressed again, he said, “I never got your name.”

“I never gave it,” she said. “You’re not local, and you won’t be back again. When you think of me – and you will – call me whatever you like.”

“Well, then,” he said. “I ought to be gettin’ back to my hotel.”

She nodded.

“Thanks for a very pleasant . . . “ but the polite phrase rang hollow to him even as he said it.

He started for the door, and only when he’d turned the nob, did he hear her saying, “The pleasure was also mine.” He turned and she winked, and then the door shut and he never saw her again.

###

The next morning, he joined the Heyes family party in the hotel dining room.

“Well, don’t you look like the cat that swallowed the canary,” said Heyes, with one of those broad smiles of his.

“I don’t know what you mean, Heyes,” he protested with mock-innocence.

Ella gave him an unreadable look. He knew she was having as difficult a time with Sandy’s absence as even he was, but he refused to feel guilty about last night. What, after all, was a man supposed to do? Wait forever for a woman who very probably was never coming back? 

Small Rachel was demanding that her nanny, Gloria, sing her a song about the scrambled eggs on her plate, and Gloria was gently insisting that the rest of the dining room might not appreciate it. Gloria had been one of the saloon girls at the Western Star, but she’d been looking for a way out of that life. She’d bonded with Heyes’ little girl while her parents were distracted by the crisis surrounding Sandy’s abduction, and been invited to stay on. People were complicated, Jed thought – he was certain that Ella would judge him for resorting to the company of a whore last night, if Heyes’ indiscreet teasing or his own evasive look gave it away. But she’d been passionate in Gloria’s defense just a couple of weeks earlier when a former client from Gloria’s saloon days had recognized her at the restaurant where they’d all eaten. Judge not, lest ye be . . .

Things were absolutely not going all right for Jed Curry, but just a little bit of the weight seemed to have fallen off his shoulders since last night. And that was enough for now. It would have to be.

**Author's Note:**

> I last wrote an adult story in 2000-2001. Turns out, I was pretty nervous about trying it again. Many thanks, for beta'ing and handholding, to Gemhenry. Nelly-Pledge, Grace Williams, and Nebraska Wildfire.
> 
> In "Restless Heart," which is the last full-scale story in the Ella series, there's a reference to the guys winning a played-out silver mine in Colorado, in a poker game in New Orleans. (It turns out not to be so played-out after all.) And New Orleans, of course, is home to the Kid's old flame, Michelle Monet. It took me nearly twenty years to do back and fill in the gaps with "Interlude in New Orleans."


End file.
